


Plumeria

by WinterIsobel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Declarations Of Love, Falling In Love, Flowers, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Tea, Unrequited Love, flower disease, hanahaki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 15:12:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16410875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterIsobel/pseuds/WinterIsobel
Summary: Sherlock has Hanahaki's disease. John finds out.//The petals keep coming, one by one, whenever they judge it’s the best time to disturb him. When John is out on a date. [..] By night, by day.He has read about it. Hanahaki.2% of the population has it. Lottery win in reverse, he guesses.No cure. Except if-





	Plumeria

**Author's Note:**

> First Johnlock ff EVER. I have no regrets.  
> I needed a ff about hanahaki and it wrote itself.
> 
> Adieu
> 
> Note: for those who might need it, here is a definition of Hanahaki (suggestions from UrbanDictionary):  
> A fictional disease, often used in fanfictions, where the victim regurgitates and coughs up flower/petals when they suffer from unrequited love. Potentially deadly, the illness disappears whenever their love is reciprocated. Surgical removal of roots/flowers/etc is also a possibility, but feelings are removed along with the infection (I chose not to consider this aspect in the story).

 

 

It starts that night. The car’s lights enlighten the night, as he steps toward John.

John.

Brilliant, interesting, ex-army doctor. John.

John shot the cabbie.

John saved him.

Even if he is never going to admit it.

He keeps his eyes on John, a mixture of hot, liquid pleasure at the bottom of his lungs and a shiver cuddling among his shoulders. He throws the panic blanket in the car and feels it.

It’s barely noticeable. His arm fletches in discomfort and he think nothing about it.

He invites John out for dinner.

 

 

It happens again at the swimming pool.

“I’ll catch – you –  later”. He gives himself five unbearably long seconds before running to crouch in front of John and getting rid of the explosive jacket.

“Now people will definitely talk”.

A stitch hits his side, but he is too relived and laughs. And laughs. And John smiles and he can’t think of something better.

He needs to reconsider when they are in Baskerville, weeks later. And John uses his army-tone. And God, that’s something. He coughs and follows him inside. He coughs again when they are having tea at the client’s manor. And in the forest. And on their way home. By then, he is almost sure it must be a residual from the exposition to the gas.

Later that night, he is brushing his teeth when another cough kicks in. He spits toothpaste, water and-

A petal.

He takes it in his hand and stares.

Plumeria.

It’s white, with a hint of golden yellow inside.

“Sherlock, are you done? Dinner’s almost ready”, John shouts from the kitchen.

His side aches.

And he knows.

 

 

 

 

“Coming”

 

 

 

 

 

 

The petals keep coming, one by one, whenever they judge it’s the best time to disturb him. When John is out on a date. After overhearing John and Irene. By night, by day.

He has read about it. _Hanahaki_.

2% of the population has it. Lottery win in reverse, he guesses.

No cure. Except if-

But that’s not his case.

John cares. But care is different from love.

So, Sherlock keeps collecting the petals and destroying them whenever John is not around. He’s a doctor after all. He must have studied the disease.

 

 

 

 

Some books suggested that emotional stress might trigger a violent reaction.

It has been half an hour since he has jumped. Since John has seen him die.

John lying on the sidewalk, crying, and crying and-

Mycroft’s men are escorting him to his brother’s safe house. Sherlock has a broken arm and various contusions. He is breathing hard but it has nothing to do with it. The private agent in front of him seems concerned but he should worry about his car’s gearbox, clearly about to give up, and his pregnant wife, which is going to give birth earlier than-

Another stab of pain lashes through him and has him crouched on the seat.

He feels the usual itching of the petals inside his throat. But it’s no more just petals, by now.

It’s flowers.

He coughs, tries to breath and he finds he can’t. The seat shines in white and gold as he struggles for oxygen. The car goes dark.

 

 

 

 

He wakes up no more than an hour later. Mycroft’s safe house.

Mycroft is standing by the window, looking at something outside.

“Did it work?” Sherlock asks. His voice is rusty. Obviously.

Mycroft slowly, slowly turns to face him. He steps closer to the bed.

He lets something fall on Sherlock’s lap.

A Plumeria flower.

“If I knew about this, I would have never helped you.”, he murmurs.

“I know”, Sherlock admits, tiredly.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock! What do you think you are doing?!!”. Mycroft sounds terribly..human. 

Sherlock finally looks him in the eyes.

“I’m saving him.”

His back aches.

Eight hours later, he is on a jet.

 

 

 

 

When John punches him at the restaurant, and they fall on the floor. It hurts.

By now he has chronical pain, all over his arms and back.

Sometimes he can’t breathe very well. It's a good thing he doesn’t smoke anymore.                  

He starts coughing the moment John and Mary leave. It’s a miracle he managed not to until now.

And he knows the blood on his hands doesn’t come from the broken nose.

 

 

 

 

“You won’t shoot me”

Irene knew. Of course, she knew. Her sister died of Hanahaki.

She warned him. Once you start coughing blood, you start the countdown.

Mary doesn’t know. She is smart, but she didn’t get it yet. With all the drug addicted-show, they all overlook his pale, sweated skin, the shadows under his eyes. People look but don’t see.

Or maybe she knows.

She knows he has loved her husband and still loves him and decided to put an end to it.

The bullet hits him. And all he can think about is John downstairs.

 

 

 

Sherlock has just stopped talking when the paramedics arrive. He is not about to have an heart attack. Another crisis? Very likely. Not that he can let John know it. He is already tormenting himself over the fact his wife shot him.

What if he knew Sherlock is dying because he is in love with him?

Mary is looking at him with new eyes. She knows she hasn’t done such a damage. She is an excellent sniper, after all. John is observing them both, as he helps him not to surrender to gravity. He is saying something about the hospital.

Sherlock hoped to hold on until inside the ambulance.

His usual luck.

A flash of pure, bright pain shutters him down. He clutches his teeth, breathes in and out form his nose.

No flower, please. Not now.

 

 

 

 

John is done. She lied to him, since the beginning. And then she shot Sherlock. To protect herself. Them, if you were to believe her. And then Sherlock runs from the hospital and risks a heart attack. What for? Help her against Magnussen?

No way.

This is not Sherlock’s- not their battle anymore.

He told her to get the hell out of his- their lives, out of London. Out.

Then he rushed to the hospital, while texting Mycroft -he will know already, but still-  and Greg.

He is still alone when a doctor exits the A&E.

“Are you a relative?”

“His brother is on his way. I’m- I’m his flatmate”. Funny, they haven’t lived together for almost three years now, but he is never going to not think of himself as such.

The doctor seizes him, before shrugging. “Good enough for me. I need to ask you a few questions, while my colleagues try to stabilize him.”

“O-f course”. His legs turned to jelly, and he needs to sit down. The other man imitates him.

“How long has he been coughing blood?”

“W-what?” John head snaps up, staring at him. The doctor reiterates. “How long has he have been coughing flowers? As far as we can see, it is in its final stage.” He continues quietly, going through the patient's files. “We might be able to stabilize him enough to send him home. But at this point, unless his feelings are accepted and he triggers the healing process..he has weeks left.”

Misreading John’s shocked expression, he adds “I’m sorry.”

 

 

John must have been still throwing up in the bathroom when Mycroft arrived, because he finds him outside, two cups of coffee in his hands.

“Take it”, he offers.

John doesn’t even consider. Mycroft isn’t surprised. They wait.

“How long have you known?” John asks.

Mycroft sights, pulls out his phone and looks for something.

He passes it over to John. A picture.

He would recognize that sidewalk everywhere. He cried on that sidewalk, he bled his heart out, there.

“W-hat does it mean?”. A detail of Sherlock’s- _someone else_ _’s_ body on the ground.

Forensic pics.

“I found out immediately after. He had a crisis. I wasn’t supposed to know either” He pauses. “Watch closer. Next to the pocket.”

John does. There is a white spot. He zooms.

A flower.

White and gold. Little, common flower. Average. And deadly.

And finally, John gets it.

 

 

 

 

 

I am being discharged SH

How are you? IA

Fine. John’s making a fuss over the cab SH

You don’t have to lie with me IA

We’re almost home SH

What are you going to do? IA

The best of what I have left with him. SH

 

 

 

 

Sherlock needs to stop halfway to catch his breath and reaching the top of the stairs feels like a victory.

John is by his side and opens the door.

Sherlock has never felt this good and this bad in his life.

He steps inside and makes his thoughts sink. They are home.

John is here.

Everything is as it should be. For a few days at least. John will think he is recovering from the wound. And it is fine. He smiles and breathes in.

Tea. John always make them tea. He should at least reciprocate this once.

“I’ll make some tea.” He steps inside the kitchen. They could read something. Or examine a cold case. And after a while John will give up and turn on the telly. One of those terrible tv series he adores.

“Earl Grey or Gunpowder?” he asks, running through the boxes in the cupboard. His arms ache terribly, tremble with the effort. He doesn’t care. He hasn’t been this happy – in years.

Since he had to leave.

“John?”

One of the boxes rolls over and falls on the floor. “Perfect”, he mutters, disappointed.

John hasn’t answered yet.

Sherlock turns back, ready to say something remarkable about boxes obeying Newton’s laws of physics when his brain stops functioning.

 

John is staying on the doorstep of the kitchen.

John is crying in silence.

John knows.

 

 

 

What he knows- How much he knows, Sherlock has no idea. But he can’t bear to see him like this.

He takes one unsteady, careful step towards him, and murmurs.

“Are you ok?”

John’s eyes go even wider and Sherlock doesn’t know if he is going to turn into stone or if he is about to explode. Maybe both.

“Am I.. Am- I?”, John whispers, shaking violently.

“John..?”

John stills, and the flat stills, and London stills.

Then John is moving, he is pushing Sherlock’s shoulders – there is the door behind him now – and suddenly John is too close and-

John kisses him. He drags him down, grabbing his shirt and makes their lips collide and doesn’t waste time to open them apart.

_Dividi et impera._

Right now, Sherlock can’t remember who wrote it.

He can’t remember his own name, for God’s sake.

He needs all his will to push John away.

After all, this is just about guilt.

 “S-stop”, he begs, a painful pressure on his ribs making his breath short.

“Why?”. John’s voice is full of desperation and emotions Sherlock can’t deal with.

Their foreheads are touching, and their breaths mingle as he answers. His eyes close.

“It doesn’t work that way. You have to-” He stops. Another cramp. John doesn’t love him. He knows he is dying. He cares, but it’s not enough.

Not to save his life.

For Sherlock, it has always been enough. More than.

“You don’t and..”

 

“You utter cock”

Sherlock opens his eyes and stares. John looks angry, and proud and there is something like fierce fire in his blue eyes. Fire instead of water. Amazing.

“Why do you think I left her? Why do you think I have been miserable for all the time I thought you were dead? Mh? How can you possibly not know this when you know everything else?”. His grip tightens on Sherlock’s shoulders, desperate.

“ _Why do you think I shot that cabbie?_ ”

Then John kisses him again and it makes Sherlock’s blood sing. Still, he doesn’t move. It’s not real. It’s the closest he will ever have. But it’s not real. John must be reading his mind today, because he breaks apart and keeps talking.

“When you” he exhales, frantic. “When you jumped, I died. And I asked for you to come back. And you heard me. So please just listen.”.

“You told me Mary was like that because I chose her. You are right, except for one thing. _I chose you_. It wasn’t the prospective of adrenaline or danger that dragged me to her, like you suggested. It was the possibility – unconscious choice, I know – to feel like I felt with you. Every time, I’d chose you.”

He cups his face with both hands. No way out.

“I love you. I loved you so much for-. God. It tears me apart, every minute of every day. But you were the one to put me together in the first place so it’s your privilege. But _if you break my heart_ and - _if you die_ , there would be no one to put me back together. So please, _please, -save me_.”

 

John hasn’t been trying to save his life.

 

He is pleading for his own.

 

Ans Sherlock hears.

 

He slowly leans forward – John is not moving, waiting for him to make the first step – and he kisses him.

Slowly at first, unsure, afraid he is imagining everything. Then John responds, and he overloads.

There is John and nothing else.

His hair, his tongue, his hands. _His John.._

It feels better than a 10 points- case.

After a moment they have to break apart because Sherlock’s lungs are still full of branches and flowers, after all. They are both panting. Sherlock’s legs go limp and he helps himself with the wall to slide on the floor. John follows him, a concerned frown on his face.

“Can you get up?”, he asks after a minute. Sherlock feels tired, but also incredibly light, for the first time in months.

He can’t manage to talk. But nods.

“Couch”. John orders. He helps him, and they cross the room. Sherlock lies down with a sight.

He doesn’t expect for John to join him. He lies down by his side, gets rid of his shoes and spoons him while using a blanket to cover them both.

“What-?”. It’s all Sherlock can manage right now.

John hugs his tightly. He plants a kiss among his curls and Sherlock’s heart misses a beat.

“I made arrangements. No one is going to disturb us for a whole week. Mycroft took care of it. And Mrs. Hudson went to visit her sister in Liverpool. You need exposure, especially since you were- ”, John gulps, unable to complete the sentence. They are both shaking, he realizes. Aftershock. “I am going to take care of you.” John states fiercely.

“So what?”, Sherlock clears his throat. It works. He speaks. “Are we going to stay like this for a whole week?”

“.. .I was thinking about a more permanent arrangement.”

A jolt of adrenaline runs through Sherlock.

.. . 

. ..

“…you should know.. I play the violin when I'm thinking and ..sometimes I don't talk for days on end. “ His -stupid- voice wavers , “..would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other”.

He holds his breath. John can’t see him like this, so he shuts his eyes.

This is so stupid. He should give John a serious answer, which-

“We don't know a thing about each other.”

John answers. Whenever Sherlock calls, he is Always ready to follow.

Sherlock feels the ghost of a smile against his hair as John continues to impersonate his past self.

“I don't know where we're meeting - when they’re lying in the very heart of their home- , I don't even know your name.”

John kisses his neck.

John chose him.

 

 _John loves him._ And Sherlock confesses.

 

“The name is Sherlock Holmes, and he has loved you since the day you stepped inside that lab. When you shot the cabbie. When you trusted him and mourned him. When he was away. When he came back. When you make him tea or get angry for his experiments. And he wouldn’t change a thing. He has loved you all along. Every second of it.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
